


crystals in the morning light

by nightdotlight



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Mace Windu Appreciation Day, Mevolent's War, Skulduggery Pleasant AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24338356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightdotlight/pseuds/nightdotlight
Summary: Blue is just about starting to appear at the eastern corner of the sky when Mace goes to wake Depa.“Papa?” She mumbles, voice quiet and ever-so-slightly slurred with the early hour, but the dart of her brown eyes to him in the gloom and the impression of her mind sleep-warm and trusting against his makes something soft rise in Mace’s chest.~It’s time for Mace and Depa to move safehouses.
Relationships: Depa Billaba & Mace Windu
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43
Collections: Mace Windu Fandom Safe Space





	crystals in the morning light

**Author's Note:**

> written for #macewinduappreciationday.

Blue is just about starting to appear at the eastern corner of the sky when Mace goes to wake Depa.

It’s the work of only a hand on her shoulder and a mental nudge of  _ time to get up, now, _ before she’s opening her eyes halfway and blinking sleepily.

“Papa?” She mumbles, voice quiet and ever-so-slightly slurred with the early hour, but the dart of her brown eyes to him in the gloom and the impression of her mind sleep-warm and trusting against his makes something soft rise in Mace’s chest.

Still, she doesn’t argue, doesn’t dwell; just pushes the covers off herself slowly and clambers to her feet, stumbling across the room to her dresser.

Mace sends an impression of warmth to her, then closes the door behind himself and moves to the kitchen of the cottage that has been their home for the past thirteen months. It’s the work of moments, to collect what Depa prefers to each in the mornings and set it out, before settling at the table with his own mug of coffee.

Hours ago, before the sun even dreamt of rising, he packed his meagre belongings; a watch, two spare sets of clothing and the journal his long-ago teacher, Cyslin Myr, bequeathed to him. He prefers to keep the truly valuable items directly on his person— hair beads and ribbons in his pocket, the square of purple felt that Depa embroidered with clumsy fingers and pressed into his hands more than three years ago now, the burnished gold-patterned blade slotted into his wrist sheath.

That last one is the most important. The blade his mentor gifted him in the last days of their time together has never failed him when he needs it— some strange magic seems to cling to the metal, allowing it to cut through anything. It’s served him well, and though he should not need it today, well—

If he does, needless to say that it will carry out its purpose without hesitation.

Thirteen months spent here, in the mountains of Wales. Over a year, and though if given the choice, if it were only him at stake, he would stay here, it’s not just him. It’s Depa here too, and Mace will die before he puts her in undue danger.

He’s a powerful Sensitive, and was well-established enough to have a reputation, prominent enough in the first century or so of the war to be known by most sorcerers with a passing interest in his field. He fought side-by-side with the Dead Men, won skirmish after skirmish with his talents. Mevolent turned his gaze on Mace, then, and it wouldn’t have been an problem, he would have carried on fighting—

Except then there was Depa to consider. Mace would gladly fight Mevolent on the front lines to the end, would die rather than be used to unleash the carnage he rages for, but the chance that she would be captured too, her own magic used, took away any choice there might have been.

It’s been seven years since he took her in. Seven years since he went into hiding, and though Mace finds himself concerned from time to time with the tides of the war, he knows that he made the right choice.

Ten days after Depa was given to him, her homestead and village burned, and she woke up screaming in the night, sobbed to him of masked monsters breathing fire to set alight her bedroom. He soothed her then, held her close and grieved with his ward, too young to put words to the horrors she had dreamt, and knew that the monsters were men and women, the masks painted with the symbol of Mevolent.

This morning, he drinks his coffee at the kitchen table and revels in the calm. They are well behind the lines of Mevolent’s opposition, in friendly territory, and so the movement between safe houses is precautionary; hardly frantic.

Minutes later, Depa stumbles downstairs in travelling clothes. Her hair is still messy, and sleep still decorates the corners of her eyes, but she wipes it away with her finger and a yawn, settling into a chair to eat. Her duffel bag, she places by her ankles, resting against the table leg: it’s almost completely packed, save for the hairbrush that rests on top of the opening, which Mace summons to himself with a flick of his fingers.

When his daughter is finished eating, she clears her plate, moving over to the window to wash it, before sitting back down in the chair, now at right angles to the table, while he moves to stand behind her.

Mace moves the brush through her hair as gently as he can, tending to knots in the brown curls with as little tugging as he can manage, before setting to the task of painstakingly braiding her hair into the style she tends to favour, plaiting in as many of the tiny crystalline beads that he can manage. It’s not the most inconspicuous thing, he thinks, but it’s something she covets dearly, this link to her culture.

Her mother wore them too, the braids and beads, the day she handed Depa to him. She cried, then, tears sparkling like her hair ornaments. Her daughter, now his ward, remembers nothing of the day she left home for the last time save that memory, he knows— her mother, crying and saying that she loved her, that this would protect her.

Depa had been so  _ small _ , then, and Mace had loved her fiercely from the second she was given into his care, immediately knew he would die to keep her safe.

He finishes the style with a copper-gold ribbon, and her hair reflects the light from the window into a million fractals from the beads. She’s relaxed, her shoulders loose under the blouse she wears, and Mace notes with some amusement that she’s halfway to going back to sleep.

Just to awaken her a little, he nudges her mind, a quiet reminder that they have things to do, today. It works, rouses her from her chair, and though she’s still tired and yawning she accepts the now fully-packed duffel with no complaint, drifts to the bathroom to brush her teeth, and returns five minutes later with her shoes and coat on.

Now that she’s fully awake, there’s a sense of melancholy to her, a ruefulness as she casts her eyes around what has been her home for the past months. Mace knows that Wales has suited her well, has settled in her heart in a way that few other places they’ve stayed have— but it would be risking her safety to stay any longer, and that’s something he cannot do.

“Come along, Depa,” he says, and steps out on to the front porch in pinstriped suit and peacoat, holds the door open behind him, picks up the umbrella from where it rests in the corner.

For just a second, she remains where she is, eyes taking in the sight of the stripped-bare cottage.

“Yes, Mace,” she says, and follows him out, closing and locking the door behind her.

Her hair shines like crystals under the morning-blue sky.


End file.
